


All the Time in the Universe

by gingerjay



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, One Shot, Romance, first kiss writing challenge, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5736613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerjay/pseuds/gingerjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This wedding is strategic,” he said. “Give them another thousand years, maybe they’ll be marrying for romance by then.”  He drew a paring knife from a block and gestured to the side with his elbow.  “Hand me those bananas.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Time in the Universe

Clara leaned against the doorway of a tidy kitchen dominated by a large marble-topped workbench. She’d never come across this room during her occasional scouting trips through the TARDIS, but then again, she’d never watched the Doctor preparing pastry with five pounds of butter either. 

He wore an apron tied in messy knots behind his neck and back, only his shoulders moving as he rolled out a rectangle of dough and then used a bench scraper to fold it in thirds before turning it and rolling it out again.  He didn’t usually bother with cooking or baking and the sight was unusual enough to keep her attention while he worked, moving with complete ease and assurance. She found herself unsurprised at his skill. He’d had hundreds and hundreds of years to hone his craft and probably… **  
**

“Private lessons from Julia Child,” he said, completing her thought.

She laughed and stepped into the room. Of course he’d known she was there.  She moved to stand beside him, taking a closer look at what had him so engrossed.  The dough was golden-yellow and dense with three large dents in the middle.

“What are you making?” she asked, resisting the urge to poke her finger into it.  

“Pate feuilletee,” he said.  “Puff pastry.”  

“Just for fun, or–?”

“For the base of my signature dish,” he said, swiping at his nose with the back of one hand.  “Bananas tarte tatin.”

“Ugh,” she said.  “That sounds like something that would be your signature dish.”  

He looked puzzled for a moment as he gave the rectangle of dough another quarter turn.  “I think maybe you’re confusing your tatins and your gratins.”

“Ah.  Wouldn’t be the first time,” she said.  “Not cheesy bananas, then?”

“No.” He worked the scraper under one edge and flipped it deftly. “Now let me concentrate, this is a very fiddly process.”

“Bananas tarte tatin,” she said. It was really very fun to say.  “Why is it always bananas with you?”

“Good source of potassium, Rose.”   

Clara let it pass without comment.  It happened sometimes when his mind was distracted, the same familiar names popping up in conversation.

He made an indentation in the pastry with his thumb.  

“Four turns,” he said, looking over to her.  “Back into the fridge.”

“Y’know, shops sell ready-made puff pastry,” she said.  “I’ve seen it. You could just pop out and grab some, save yourself some trouble.”

“Could do,” he said.  “Except Saeprians are a touch-telepathic species.”

He closed the door of the refrigerator and rubbed his nose again, this time leaving a trail of flour across his upper lip.  Clara stared at the spot, fingers twitching with the need to brush it away.

“Not sure what a Saeprian is,” she said.  “And no idea what touch telepathy has to do with French pastry.”  

“Keep up, will you?” he said.  He bent to retrieve a bowl from the bottom shelf.  “The tatin is for the matrimonial feast.  If I cut any corners and the Paramount Ruler catches on, not only will he be upset, we’ll also anger his two grooms and their six brides.  I needn’t remind you that Saeprian females are venomous when in a state of high emotion.”  He gave a tiny shudder.  “It’s not pretty.”   

Speaking of high emotion, he looked very flustered at the idea of angry venomous women and rather adorable fussing over his recipe.  And that pesky stripe of flour, right there above his mouth, something should be done about that.

“So you’re going to all this trouble for a wedding dish?” she said.  “Very romantic.”

“Not in the least,” he said.  “The Paramount Ruler and one of his brides are from opposing cabals.  Their union will cement a very tenuous peace agreement I helped negotiate last month.  We can’t do anything that might cause offense. And the contribution to the matrimonial dinner is obligatory.”  

Clara blew out an exasperated sigh.  “Boring,” she said.

“What is?”  

“What you’re describing.  A marriage of state.”

“Boring, perhaps,” he said.  “But common.  Marrying for love is a human social construct, Clara.  And a recent one at that.”

“I don’t care,” she said.  “Marriage should be passionate, full of mutual feeling, not strategic.”

He frowned, his jaw muscles clenching as they did when he wanted to say more but was trying to be polite.

“This wedding is strategic,” he said. “Give them another thousand years, maybe they’ll be marrying for romance by then.”  He drew a paring knife from a block and gestured to the side with his elbow.  “Hand me those bananas.”

“What bananas?” she asked, even as she reached for them.  “I didn’t notice them before.  Did you materialize them out of thin air or something?”   

He snapped off two bananas and pushed the rest in her direction.  “You should put your hand in, too,” he said. “You’re my plus one and your telepathic signature needs to be present in the dish we’re bringing. They’ll pick up on it immediately if it’s missing.“  

Clara nodded, carefully removing another knife, not even questioning his logic.  She sliced off the stem end and peeled it, nudging the skin to one side with the blade.

“Am I your plus one?” she asked.  “You didn’t say anything about it until just now.”

“On the diagonal,” he said, demonstrating with his own knife.  “About six millimeters thick.  And no, I…well, I assumed.  You’re my plus one for everything else.”  

She made a few careful slices before her next question.

“When were you going to tell me about this wedding?”

He shrugged, dumped a handful of sliced banana into the bowl.  “As soon as the tarte tatin was finished.”

“You didn’t think I’d need a little more time to prepare?”

“Of course not,” he said.  “You always look beautiful.”

She wasn’t sure why the thought crossed her mind.  After all those moments they’d shared, the meaningful glances, the near-misses when she’d all but held up a “kiss me” sign and been ignored. Why now? Maybe it was a way of pushing away the soul-crushing thought of diplomatic marriages.  Maybe it was his casual assurance that he found her attractive. Or maybe it was the sweet notion of being his assumed plus one in everything.  Clara turned her head, leaned toward him and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, right where the smear of flour dotted his face.

The knife he’d been using clattered to the work surface and he leaped away from her, hand held to his cheek, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.  Clara stood very still.  No need to startle him further or he might bolt.  She moistened her lips with her tongue, tasting a little of the flour and a trace of soap.  

His mouth worked soundlessly and then he began to make inarticulate noises. Oh god, that stutter; when his brain completely disengaged and not even the TARDIS could decipher his intent.  It was his most endearing trait and it was all she could do to keep from grabbing and snogging him senseless on the spot.

“I won’t apologize,” she said.

He blinked rapidly, still in shock but regaining his ability to speak.

“I’m….not asking you to.”  

His gaze dropped to her mouth, his tongue darted out nervously and he swallowed.  She knew what he was thinking.  She took two steps toward him, tangled her fingers in the curls at the back of his head and pulled him forward, her lips parting as she kissed him gently.  

He held himself back for a moment, not even daring to move but then Clara felt his body relax and he brought one hand up to cup her face.  The thumb stroking her cheek was slick with butter from the dough and she turned her head for a quick nibble, touching her tongue to the tip.

With a sharp intake of breath, he crushed his mouth to hers.  There was no tentativeness now, no heedless groping; this was a surgical strike.  He knew what he wanted. His hand gripped the back of her neck, exerted a gentle pressure.  But he held her in place more with presence than with force and she gladly gave herself over to the pleasures of his kiss.  

He whispered her name against her mouth, his tone pleading and she wrapped her arms tightly around him.  She squeezed her eyes shut as nebulas burst in her field of vision with sparkles of gold and streamers of crimson and cobalt and seafoam.  The kitchen fell away and she was aware only of softness and moist warmth and the sound of their ragged breathing and the perfect way the angles of his face fit the curves of hers.

She felt the counter against the small of her back, bent her knee and rested the flat of her foot against one of the shelves.  He followed her lead and it took no effort at all for him to grasp her around the waist and lift her until she sat nearly eye level with him.  And now she could read the emotion on his face, the longing and the uncertainty.  

She tilted her head, her mouth searching and finding the pulse at the angle of his neck.  His breath escaped him in a long, low moan and Clara smiled, feeling his double-time heartbeats pounding in a rapid rhythm.  She moved from his neck to nip at the little divot in his bottom lip, the very spot her eyes were always drawn to. She’d never asked about it despite her curiosity.  Fist fight?  Shaving accident?  Didn’t seem important now.

His hands, which had been resting on her knees, began a slow slide upward.  The calluses on his fingertips snagged at her tights and she wanted to feel that roughness against her skin, wanted nothing between them.  He pushed her legs apart with soft pressure on each thigh and pressed himself close to her.  He tucked her hair behind her ears, the cold of his ring against her cheek startled her.  Another unanswered question. Another question Clara didn’t care about, not when he was this close, brushing a final lingering kiss against her lips.

He leaned his forehead against hers, his hands on her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling him shivering against her.  

“Why?” he said after a moment, his voice a hoarse rasp.  

She drew back, trying to gauge his reaction.  She couldn’t bear to see him upset over something that had brought her so much pleasure, something that she wanted him to enjoy, too, and tried to lighten the mood.

“The apron,” she said, playfully twanging one of the straps over his shoulder. “Instructions were right there.  Couldn’t help myself.”

He frowned at that and Clara sighed.  Not ready for the levity quite yet.

“It was just an impulse,” she said.  “I’m sorry if it bothered you.”

"It's fine," he said.  But it wasn't fine. He was looking everywhere except at her and she stilled his head with her hands, holding his gaze until she felt him relax.

“I’m not sorry it happened,” she said.  

“Neither am I,” he said. “You should follow your impulses more often. But the apron…”

“What about it?” she said.

“You misread it.” He pulled the fabric taut, indicating the words with one finger.  “It’s ‘Kill the Cook,’” he said.  “Not ‘kiss.’ Someone’s idea of a joke. Strax, I think.  Not that I’m complaining about the misunderstanding.”

He tilted her chin up with two fingers, bent forward and kissed her again, softly.  

“Now,” he said.  “We have a puff pastry to finish.  Two more turns should do it, I think.”  

“Mmhm.”  She kissed the end of his nose.

And a bunch of bananas to slice and caramelize,” he said.

“Okay.”  A kiss on his chin this time. “But you know what else we have?”

“What?”

“A time machine,” she said.  “And all the time in the universe, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for antennapedia's Whouffaldi First Kiss challenge on Tumblr.


End file.
